


The Stubborness of Dwarves

by Nilhenwen



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilhenwen/pseuds/Nilhenwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He never invited the Elf King to his room, and had little memory of how they had passed through the caverns of Erebor to reach his door. A smile came unbidden to his lips as he remembered hands easing him against the carved wood... The pressed kiss was gentle and explosive and a surge of need spread from his fingers to his boots within a moment. A silken tongue caressed Thorin’s lip and the dwarven prince took the King of Mirkwood by the arms and slipped him through his door."</p><p>Thorin had worried about passing through Mirkwood since stepping out of Bag End. It turns out, he was right to worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stubborness of Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

> Potential Spoilers for 'The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug', or whatever they happen to call the second movie. Also, for 'An Unexpected Journey' if you haven't seen it yet and are strangely reading fanfiction regardless. 
> 
> From [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=33214#t33214) at the [Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Thanks to my sexy beta, Freaky Lemur Cat [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat) and at [LJ](http://freakylemurcat.livejournal.com/)

****

It had never been an option to go around Mirkwood. The forest was too vast and lay too thick and close to the feet of the Grey Mountains. Goblins slunk there in the slopes beneath the shadows of the peaks, and the two hundred miles around the forest’s edge would add weeks to their journey that they could not afford to lose. Summer was beginning to slip from the shoulders of the land and soon the chill of autumn would be upon them. _The day when the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter share the sky..._

It had been a terrible foreboding that smouldered in Thorin’s stomach as they stood upon the edge of the wood. Gandalf’s departure had done nothing to ease his concern. The forest lay before them like a great labyrinthine beast waiting to swallow them whole. The company spoke quietly to each other, struggling to ignore the gloom that seemed to permeate even the approaching grasslands around them. As they shouldered their packs, sharing out the weight of their provisions for the long journey through the forest, Thorin glared through the darkness.

“It is a dangerous path.” A voice to his left interrupted his thoughts.

The dwarven King did not shift his eyes from Mirkwood. “It was always part of the journey. The forest is a necessary evil,” he said. His dismissal did not fool the older dwarf.

“Aye, we’ll make it through. As long as we don’t let it get to our heads, eh?” Balin grunted. His own eyes, beady as they were, fixed themselves on Thorin.

“It is only darkness. Darkness is what we delve in,” he said. With what appeared to be a great effort, Thorin dropped his eyes from the tree line, knelt and began to secure the items in his own pack.

“This is a different kind of darkness, Thorin,” the older man warned. “Do not let yourself forget that.”

“You do not need to tell me the dangers of the forest.” Thorin tugged a strap hard enough to break it. He rose and swung the filled pack onto his back as though it weighed no more than a hobbit. “I know them all too well.”

“This darkness is living, not of stone,” the greying dwarf said. “We must close our minds to it.”

“Fili! Kili! Help Mr. Baggins with his pack. We want to make the forest before nightfall,” he shouted, blinking in the midday sun. His nephews strode to do his bidding. Balin’s lips thinned. He had known Thorin long and even had he no knowledge of what had gone before, he would have known their leader’s unease with a glance. But he had given his council and could do no more.

“The ponies have been sent back to Beorn, they’re out of sight now. We’re ready to move on,” Balin said and gave a single nod to his king. “We will follow you.”

Thorin watched as Balin stepped to join the rest of their company. The weight in his words told Thorin that the old dwarf had not simply meant into the forest, but to wherever he chose to lead them. It was almost enough to lift the shadows from his mind and the burning from his gut, but his thoughts were stuck and not on the forest ahead.

His dreams of the night before seemed stuck to him and he could not shake their hold. The memory of smooth skin and golden hair brushing across his face, the press of lips, a gentle moan, a kiss. His night had been restless even in the warmth of Beorn’s cabin. His eyes were heavy with sleep but he would not afford them the luxury of laziness.

“We move!” he shouted. The forest swallowed his call.

~

Their first night was not kind to them. The thick darkness of the forest deepened with the sun’s setting and the gloom turned to pitch black. Strange noises fluttered in the deep, the leaves whispered horrors to them in a language they did not know. Eyes floated in the black, watching and waiting.

Dwalin was given the first watch. Before long Thorin wished he had taken it himself. The roots of Mirkwood were dense and unforgiving. The dampness seemed to make the air thick and he felt each breath he sucked in. A terrible cold penetrated his clothes and bit at his skin sending shivers through his body that he fought to repress. He fell, finally, into an uneasy sleep.

Floating eyes watched as twisted roots curled around him and trapped him against the forest floor. He struggled against them but the damp bark rubbed welts in his skin as they only tightened. One slithering strand wrapped over his chest and squeezed until his breaths were little more than desperate gasps. Only darkness surrounded him, and he was alone. Strange sounds echoed in the blackness, growing nearer and clearer. A host of elves appeared from the darkness, only their glowing eyes and shining blades could be seen in the darkness. The roots subdued his struggling form.

From their midst he strode, eyes devouring Thorin. He was above him then, leaning over and stealing his catching breath. A cold fingertip trailed down his cheek and over his open tunic, setting his skin on fire. A cruel smirk played across his lips and he dropped his mouth to rip a kiss from Thorin’s gasping mouth. He lay atop him, pressing himself across the dwarf’s body like a snake, but lighter than the smallest serpent could ever weigh. Thorin struggled. A hand wrapped around his arm and pulled, and pulled, and pul-

“Wake up!” hissed in his ear. He jerked awake, the darkness of his dream lifted only to be replaced by the all-too real darkness of Mirkwood. His eyes searched the black. The same eyes watched, but there were no sharp elven orbs among them. “Thorin?”

It was Dwalin. Thorin could only make out a blurred shape, but the dwarf’s gruff voice betrayed him. He said nothing more, awaiting a response from his leader. Thorin breathed, easier than his dream, but the air was still damp and heavy. The sooner they escaped this wood the better.

“I shall take this watch,” said Thorin as he rose from the damp bedding. He could imagine the question in Dwalin’s face then, but moved blindly to the edge of their camp and left the dwarf befuddled. He pulled a pipe from his tunics and settled for the night.

~

The spiders had hindered their progress by more than a week. The quick thinking of Mr. Baggins had been the only thing between their company and a gradual devouring, trapped in darkness and webbing.

Thorin dragged another strand from his hair. The webbing was sticky and strangely intractable; pulling at it only seemed to lengthen the strands and whet their appetite for further fusing. Another day was sinking beneath the Misty Mountains, but the thickness of the foliage disallowed any navigation by the sun. The gloom increased at a steady pace from all sides, enclosing them. Utterly lost in the centre of the wood. Their only hope was to find-

“Light!” the call came from Mr. Baggins. His sharp eyes had not failed the Company yet. Thorin turned to the hobbit. “There!” His finger pointed to the left of the group.

“I see nothing,” said Thorin as he squinted into the darkness.

“Wait; it’s growing brighter,” said Bilbo, barely more than a whisper as though fearing to frighten away their flickering hope.

Thorin’s eyes searched through the shadows, beneath the trees, through the leaves until eventually his eyes began to pick out a tiny flicker of light in the distance. So small it was at first, that he wondered whether it was his eyes playing tricks, but Bilbo was right and it grew brighter with each passing moment. The sound of distant laughter and merriment rose from the depths of the wood. His stomach twisted.

“Do you hear that?” asked Kili. “There is a feast being enjoyed in this wretched place!” The younger dwarf took an excited step towards the light.

“No!” warned Thorin. “We do not know if they are friend or foe.”

“We have no food,” said Kili. “We have no water, we have nothing and they are feasting not a mile away.”

“We cannot go wandering into the darkness,” the king declared with a shake of his head. He took a step towards his nephew, almost threatening.

“What are we doing now, uncle?” Weariness was taking its toll on them all. Bombur still stumbled and tripped, half-lost in the dream world he had found when in the thrall of the spiders. Their packs were lost, and the path which Gandalf had told them not to leave was long disappeared in the foliage. They were lost and even Kili could see it in Thorin’s eyes.

“It sounds like the elves,” Balin’s voice came from further back. Thorin could not see him in the gloom.

“All the more reason not to go trotting off to them,” he responded. His lips pressed together in a thin line, already aware that he would be overruled in this matter. “The Elf King is not our friend. He does not trouble himself with the trivialities of our people.”

“I am terribly hungry,” Bilbo’s voice was faint. His comment was intended for himself, but in the heavy quiet they all heard his words.

“We cannot find ourselves much worse off that we are now,” Balin’s voice emerged again.

Thorin heaved a sigh. He threw a glance towards the light. There were many now, as though several fires were lit and for a moment he fancied he could almost hear the tinkling of goblets as ale and wine was toasted. His own stomach was heavy with hunger. They would not last out the week in this hell.

“If it is what you wish, then we shall go,” said Thorin. “But do not expect a warm welcome.”

~

Worse than lost in Mirkwood, turned out to be locked in a lonely cell with no more food than he had began with. The elven people were suspicious and cruel to those that they did not know. Especially dwarves.

Thorin walked the four walls that entrapped him, feeling the heft of the stone and smelling the strength of the rock. He did not know where the others were. His last waking memory was of stepping into the circle of glorious warmth and light before a sudden explosion of shouts all around him and then darkness.

He had awoken in the last place he ever wanted to find himself in Middle Earth. A cell of the Elf King of Mirkwood. He grit his teeth in rage; it frothed in his gut as walked the cell and trailed his fingertips across the badly hewn stone. From the moment he had stepped from the doorway at Bag End, he had promised himself to do everything in his power to avoid this place. Now he was unavoidably trapped.

A growl arose from deep within him. As it rumbled through the cell he slammed his fist against the wall. The noise from his throat echoed around the deep halls before fading out to the gentle crackle of torches in the far hallway. The Lonely Mountain was close enough to taste. Did the Elf King even know that his scouts had caught him? He supposed that the elven youths, as he thought of them – though they were several hundred years older than him – did not even know him. He wondered how long it would take for them to figure out who they had caught? Would he then be taken for an audience with their king? Or would the elf even care to see him when he found out? Perhaps he would simply be left there to rot.

His stout legs lowered him to the wooden cot that lay in the corner of the cell. Alone in the darkness those distant and gnawing memories began to clamour at his thoughts. Lightness and mirth tinged with the bitter sting of betrayal slipped its fingers between the slabs of darkness in his mind. Cold eyes began to entrap him, their thrall inescapable. As he sat in the darkness, he remembered.

The Elf King had come like so many to pay tribute to the strength and wealth of Erebor and its King Under the Mountain. He had stood at his grandfather’s right hand as the elven warrior gracefully approached the throne. The Arkenstone had reflected in his cold eyes, lending them a warmth they did not possess. Their eyes had met and Thorin remembered the incredible wave of tingling excitement that had swept over him in that moment.

He never invited the Elf King to his room, and had little memory of how they had passed through the caverns of Erebor to reach his door. A smile came unbidden to his lips as he remembered hands easing him against the carved wood. Thranduil’s face was before his own, the height difference expunged by the elf’s unnoticed sinking to one knee. The gesture was somehow respectful and the dwarf remembered little more than the smooth touch of dampened lips against his own. The pressed kiss was gentle and explosive and a surge of need spread from his fingers to his boots within a moment. A silken tongue caressed Thorin’s lip and the dwarven prince took the King of Mirkwood by the arms and slipped him through his door.

To see an elf spread upon the furs and linens of his bed was not a first, but the sight of King Thranduil between the four carven posts of stone made him shed his tunics all the quicker. He was given help, the heavy cotton pushed from his shoulders by elegant fingers. The caress of perfect skin across his broad shoulders awoke in him a fire that burnt far brighter than the one flaming in the grate. He sat astride the elven lord, his sturdy pelvis placed atop the elf’s delicate hips. A hand arose and twisted its fingers through his long hair, gentle at first and then growing more insistent. Thranduil’s fist closed on a handful of russet and pulled Thorin’s face down to his own. They kissed again, this time with a growing fervour, lust empowering their movements with insistence. Thorin rocked his hips and swallowed the moan he earned. The fingers entangled in his hair massaged there, and he relaxed his body across the sharp planes of Thranduil beneath. Again, the twist of a tongue at his lips and he opened them, welcoming the thrusting warmth with eager expectation. Thranduil slid into his mouth and pressed their tongues together. The dance was gentle but insistent and before long they broke apart.

“You intrigue me, prince,” came the musical voice. Thorin’s eyes reluctantly flickered open. Warm brown met icy blue. Only for a moment did Thranduil allow the contact. His eyes soon dropped to trace critically over Thorin’s wide shoulders and strong chest. The hand unwrapped from his hair without entanglement and sunk to dance in the peppering of dark hair across his chest. Thorin sensed the appraisal, but it did not concern him. A self-assured smile raised his lips. The elf took his time, tracing the contours of the prince of Erebor with the leisurely quality that only the immortal possess.

Thranduil was fascinated with Thorin’s arms. The king’s eyes focused on the rounded muscle, forged for years by hammer and axe beneath the mountain. His fingers tripped into the dip of his elbow before cresting the rise of his forearm with a pleasurable smile that could not be concealed. Thorin did not need to shift his gaze from Thranduil’s face to know that the shoulders and chest which followed were lithe and petite in comparison. The elves, possessed of a natural strength had no use for perceptible muscle. Thorin knew the most entrancing part of the Elf King was his eyes, which gleamed brighter than any of the gems piled in the vaults below.

The gentle hand turned to a weapon. Pressed against his shoulder, Thranduil shoved with hidden strength and sent Thorin to his back. It seemed that the elf’s legs were moving before Thorin had even fell, and within less than an instant the King’s lightness was atop him.

Thranduil took visible pleasure in the prince’s sigh of acceptance. He lowered himself to place a sumptuous kiss on the lips now beneath him. Thorin lifted himself from the furs warmed by the King’s skin without aid of his arms. The king watched with approving amusement as the dwarf’s stomach tightened. They could both feel each others’ interest easily through the thin layers of fabric that remained between them. Thorin used his unoccupied arms to push the silken vestment from the king’s shoulders. The long tunic fell to the darkness at the foot of the bed and gifted an expanse of fair skin to his hungry lips. He flitted kisses along an elegant collar before dropping lower to juicier flesh. Hands placed on slender hips, the kisses lengthened and deepened until Thorin’s tongue slipped from between his lips and wetted a line across the elven chest. Thranduil’s hands began to inspect the prince’s back as Thorin’s tongue became more intimate. Over and across to meet in the middle, then bump down his spine and part again, then stop and spread his fingers, a grin as he trailed his nails in, across skin to a claw and then out again; Thorin’s spine lengthened and his warm body pressed closer. Thranduil pulled his hands around to press over ribs hidden beneath ridges of muscles as Thorin’s tongue continued down his chest, beginning to tease. Thranduil beat him to it and squeezed a raised nipple. Thorin jerked upward with a gasp as his head tipped backwards. Thranduil moulded himself to the body beneath, hot in the darkness.

The Elf King had enjoyed enough by then and pushed the prince down into the welcoming furs below. Thorin seemed to be divested utterly of his clothes within a moment. Thranduil’s knees - somehow now also bare - pressed his legs apart accompanied by a seductive smile. The king lowered himself to press another long kiss to Thorin’s lips. In the same moment he pressed his hardness against Thorin’s entrance, teasing the dwarf’s own length with the press of his body. His elven eyes were steady in the darkness, absorbing every twitch and contortion of his lover’s face. Thranduil kept him waiting no longer and used a confident thrust to slide his length slickly into the waiting warmth. His eyes slid shut for the first time that night.

A long moment was given to this time. Thorin was unsure whether it was an elven practice or if the king was simply of the mind to tease him. Perhaps it was to allow him time to adjust to the feeling, however the elf’s girth was not overly large for him, and the sensation of entrance had begun to fade. His mind slipped for a moment to wonder at the lack of preparation and the apparent slickness of their joining. Thranduil quickly reclaimed his thoughts and thrust his hips deeper without even a kiss of warning. The pause before movement made the eventual gratification all the sweeter and Thorin cried out, pleasure rising from beneath through his chest and erupting from his mouth in a shout. An answered hum of pleasure came from the Elf King as he slid in and out of Thorin’s heat. His thrusts were even but relentless and Thorin did not notice as his fists twisted in the sheets.

Thranduil threw his head back and groaned musically, then opened his mouth wide and gasped in a pleasurable sigh. His hair tickled across Thorin’s muscled body, but the dwarf could sense little but Thranduil’s length as it pressed deep inside him. Thranduil bent to mouth wet kisses behind Thorin’s ear. Long braids and thick hair hindered him so his hand re-found its grip and tugged the dwarf’s head to the side. A keening moan answered the tug so Thranduil kept his grip tight enough to edge on discomfort. Thorin’s hips bucked.

The Elf King’s movement grew less measured and his head dropped to rest on Thorin’s shoulder. The dwarf’s hands rose to slide over the pallid skin. Thranduil shivered at the feel of calloused fingertips accosting his body. His hand loosened in Thorin’s hair and the dwarf stole the opportunity. He straightened, his already brawny body strengthened by lust. The movement unbalanced the sure-footed elf and Thorin was able to manipulate the light body and tumble it to the side. He sat astride the elven king now. Their eyes met. Thranduil’s blazed with lust and fury at his usurpation.

In the tussle, he had slipped from Thorin. The dwarf moved to lean in with the thought of a stolen kiss, but Thranduil was quick and pushed him backwards, and used his elven dexterity to align them perfectly. Thorin was pressed back onto his throbbing length. Thranduil licked another cry from the prince’s lips, watching as his eyes slid closed. He sat up and allowed Thorin’s weight to slide into his lap. Burly arms wrapped themselves around his neck as Thorin recovered. Something like determination flickered in Thorin’s eyes then, and Thranduil watched, entranced. He had only let his guard drop for a moment, but it was enough, and Thorin suddenly shifted his hips and sent a shard of pleasure shattering up his spine. A cry was ripped from his mouth without his consent. A hearty grunt of amusement mixed undeniably with pleasure rumbled in the body pressed to him.

Thorin began to rock back and forth and the heat that had smouldered between them moments before returned, burning off the bite of anger. Thorin’s movements were ill-measured and uneven and something in the irregular shift and squeeze of his body made an unearthly bliss arise in Thranduil such as he had not felt before. Indeed, it threatened to overflow. It seemed it had grown without his noticing, until now. He bit his lip betwixt his teeth and tried to lessen the need to let go that had suddenly attacked him.

Thorin’s hand snaked upwards and secured a handful of his golden hair; a return of his own former sentiment, and it dragged his mind from all things except the sting at the nape of his neck and the warmth that surrounded his pulsing length. It was too much.

Thorin felt the thudding in Thranduil’s chest acutely in his own, but whether it was his heart, or the Elf King’s that was beating with such passion was beyond his comprehension. The rub of smooth skin against his own, hot and slick coupled with the burning perfection that filled him was almost too much to bear. His legs ached with the strain of lifting and sliding himself on to the elf but the tendrils of pleasure that vibrated through his being was more perfect than all the jewels of Erebor. He could feel how close Thranduil was beneath him. His own pulsing length ached with the need to be touched, but it seemed his strident thrusts had caught the measured Elf King off guard, and he looked close to letting go.

Thranduil’s head tipped back, mouth open in a gasp. His eyes slid open and met Thorin’s and then with a final gasp he-

“-The King will see you now, dwarf.”

Thorin was shaken from his memory. He found himself upon the wicker cot in the small stone cell, shivering against the cold. He stared dumbly at the elven guard for a moment.

“Get up!” he snapped, voice still disgustingly musical. “You shall not keep King Thranduil waiting.”

Oh, yes. He had forgotten.

Thorin forced his stiff legs into action and rose as gracefully as he could manage. He turned square to the elven guard; a lissom silhouette in the door.

“If the King wishes an audience with me, he is welcome to come and see me himself.” Thorin’s eyes burned. The elf began to laugh.

“You are funny dwarf,” he entered the cell, stepping into the darkness. The torchlight caught the glinting edges of his armour, untouched by battle. “Let us hope that King Thranduil finds you as amusing as I!” He was followed by another golden-haired elf child, barely free from his mother’s teat by the looks of it. Quick hands secured cuffs on his wrists, more than just forged iron but infused with some arcane elven magic no doubt. He could feel it swim in the metal, tickle over his skin where it touched. So, it seemed that Thranduil would see him after all.

He was led, not unceremoniously, through endless halls of stone. He had been placed deep in the King’s dungeons, far beneath the damp of the forest. These Mirkwood elves were like no others he had encountered before. Soon, they rose from the depths beneath the forest back into the damp air. Thorin was surprised to find it refreshing and sweet. Where unshaped blocks of square stone once were, there were now smooth expanses of rock entwined with trees and vines that edged the corners and broke through the solid walls. The King’s palace was part of the forest, and the stone seemed to breathe the bark of the trees. Bird song began to echo through the hallways and a gentle light of green hue began to filter through the emerging canopy above. It was not solely the surrounding nature that made Thorin uneasy.

His guards, both leading him though neither bonded to him turned to their left through a high-reaching archway draped with vines. They had entered a great and open hall. No torches burned here, and the cold stone was warmed with green sunlight. The hall’s green glow made the solid seem ephemeral and that was not an effect that Thranduil had ever required help with.

Upon a grand trunk, bark and branches twisted strangely to form a seat, their tips reaching high towards the kissing trees above, sat the Elf King. His attention was focused upon the entrance. The elves had always respected first meetings, of whatever kind.

It did not take long for Thranduil’s sharp eyes to pick out his features from the far end of his hall. Even in the green gloom that made the air seem strangely solid, Thorin felt his spark of surprise. He rose, graceful even in spontaneous movement. Thorin held his gaze, though he could see little of the elf’s features from this distance. A tearing sensation snapped somewhere in his chest as he remembered a locked gaze of this kind, many years before. Their positions were not so much different then, either.

The guards escorted him to the foot of the immodest steps that rose to the Elf King’s feet, before they each broke off to either side and stood to attention before their lord. As though Thranduil’s unnatural height was not sufficient to tower above the dwarf prince, the steps led to a most absurd elevation.

The room was utterly still, the uneasy quiet unbroken even by bird song, as though the animals sensed the ambience. Thranduil’s cold eyes were unblinking. Thorin refused to look away.

Something broke the spell and Thranduil tipped his head, but his gaze remained fixed. “Prince Thorin.” It was a greeting. “I had not thought to find you so far afield.”

Thorin did not speak, refusing the King an answer to his presumptuous question. He held the gaze, mouth set in a thin line. His position was certainly compromised, powerful arms shackled by elven steel before him, but the power he held in his eyes could not be held by any metal.

“What brings the Prince of Erebor to these lands?”

Thorin wondered if Thranduil mocked him. These lands were his lands. Or they soon would be. He did not respond.

“I apologise for your detainment, prince,” Thranduil offered. “I was told only that dwarves had been found in the realm. I was not informed which ones we had the fortune of entertaining.”

Thorin gazed. “You have my kin then.” He broke his silence. The words were heavy and slow.

Thorin’s manner brought further caution to the King’s words. “Yes.”

“What reason does an elf of Mirkwood have,” said Thorin, disrespectful, “to imprison lawful travellers in the land?” Thorin moved his gaze from the elf and shifted it across his hall. His eyes were critical and he took his time before he returned his attention to the King. It was a small battle, but he had won it.

“Being unaware of allegiance and purpose, it is foolish to allow any traveller to pass without question, is it not?” Thranduil had not changed. Time had not touched him. He was precisely as Thorin’s mind had held him. Part of his brain betrayed him in that moment and wondered how he had changed to Thranduil’s eyes.

“Perhaps when that traveller is me, you are right to think it unwise.” The dwarf prince carefully pressed the words to make certain they would not betray him.

“Remove his bonds.” The words were light, as though the utterance was so obvious as to barely warrant expression. His bidding was done within an instant and Thranduil descended. His green and silver tunics shifted around him as though alive themselves as he moved. There was no crown upon his head. A nominal gesture was made, and the guards drifted to the shadows and they were alone.

“I do not wish to tarry here.” Thorin decided he would waste no more time. “I have business to do of great import.” Thranduil stood before him, at distance enough to not look down upon him. The pointed ears almost twitched as their master listened intently. There was no question of the nature of Thorin’s business.

“I was not aware that you had ventured to these lands,” Thranduil’s voice adopted a tone of urgency. “Had I been informed ahead perhaps I could have made some provision-“

“-I do not intend to inform all of Rhovanion of my business,” replied Thorin, his own voice had lost its measure and matched the exigency of his task.

“You must have known, Thorin Oakenshield, that you would cross these lands,” said Thranduil. Indeed, Thorin had worried of little else since Hobbiton. He would not give the elf the pleasure of such knowledge, not before he died.

“I had hoped, that by now your feeling of enmity towards my people would have faded,” Thorin bit, “and that we would not be delayed here. I was sorely mistaken.”

“You invade upon my peoples’ celebrations and expect not their alarm?” said Thranduil.

“We merely sought aid, and had your people shown respect they would have known.”

“You stumbled into a gathering of merriment armed and aggressive and expected my people to welcome you to their tables?” Thranduil frowned with distaste. “I do not imagine even the dwarves of Erebor show such hospitality.”

“Indeed we show none hospitality.” Thorin’s voice had adopted a tone of defiance and his words sunk to a deep resonance. “It is difficult to entertain with grace when without a home.”

Thranduil’s unearthly features creased into a deep frown. His eyes rose to the archway behind Thorin. The dwarf ground his teeth.

“Does my presence bore you, my king?” growled the prince. “If so, let my companions and I be on our way!”

Thranduil’s eyes fell again to him, though only for a moment before the King’s attention returned to the archway. “Come, Thorin.”

“What?” questioned the dwarf as the King moved around him and made his way from the hall.

“We shall not discuss this here,” his voice this time was sharp, and to Thorin’s utter fury, he found himself following the elegant elf.

It seemed the melding of nature and stone was a theme throughout Thranduil’s palace. As they moved through the corridors, Thorin’s eyes danced through the shadows and doorways as he searched for the Elf King’s trick.

A winding stair led them several times around the thick and damp trunk of a tree, that to Thorin appeared to be long-dead. Before long, Thranduil pushed open an ornately carved door and slid inside.

“You bring me to your chamber to discuss matters of importance?” Thorin questioned, disgust tinted his voice.

“Here we shall not be overheard.”

“What is it that you are ashamed to say, King?” spat Thorin before he turned his back on the elf and moved from him. Thranduil stood before a moss covered balcony lit by the same green glow as graced the hall. Thorin shrank into the gloom; the beginnings of a headache had started to prick at the edges of his skull.

“It is not my own words I worry about,” replied Thranduil. His voice was closer, though Thorin had not heard him approach. The dwarf would not give him the satisfaction of turning to see. Instead he kept his face to the gloom offered by the corners of the room. A table in the centre was spread with luxurious food. He had not eaten for days but could find no hunger within himself for the coloured fruits and tasty treasure. A tiredness overcame him.

“Let us pass on. I have no interest in your woods, elf,” he said. Although it seemed at first like submission, the growl of a warning hid beneath.

“Thorin, you must not go to the mountain,” Thranduil’s voice was reasonable but uncareful.

“I shall return to my home when I please,” Thorin spun. “It is not for you or anyone to say whether I should or should not.”

“You shall awake a sleeping darkness there that will overshadow these lands,” said Thranduil, his eyebrows rose.

“Perhaps you may have earned a say had you come to our aid when needed.” Thorin stepped toward the elf. “You have declared Erebor as beneath your concern.”

“The people of Erebor have little defence if you awaken Smaug,” Thranduil’s voice hardened. “He has slept peaceful on his gold all these years-“

“-It is not his gold,” growled Thorin, enraged.

Thranduil’s barrage of nay saying continued unchecked. “If you go you shall sentence them to death and exile-“

“-As we were! It is a pity you did not show my people the same concern!”

 “You will destroy the peace for gold?”

“I will destroy it for my home, and for my people,” Thorin raged. “For they have no other to do it for them.”

“Esgaroth lives in fear of Smaug; you will find no friends there.”

“Had they come to our aid when the worm attacked us,” countered Thorin, “then they would not live under the shadow of the Mountain now!”

“They had not enough men, Thorin. Do not be a fool,” said Thranduil.

“You had,” Thorin accused and stepped nearer again. He cared not that he looked up at the elf. “You could have destroyed him; ended his reign of smoke and fire the very day it began. But you chose to abandon us to our fate.”

“I could not risk the noble and loyal warriors of my kin in a battle that was not theirs to fight, Thorin. Your grandfather’s lust and greed brought this upon your people.”

“You would have gained nothing, so you left, it is not so hard to see,” said Thorin, head shaking in denial of the elf’s words. He stalked away.

“Surely Thrór must have considered the risk of hoarding such wealth in one place?”

“No,” Thorin turned back to the elven lord. “But perhaps he should have considered the risk of counting an elf-traitor as a friend.”

“You dare accuse me of treason?” Thranduil shouted. The room grew murky as his mood darkened, the forest as alive as he. “You dwarves hide in your halls and mines and care nothing of the troubles of others for centuries!”

“When my people build an alliance we are loyal to it!” Thorin yelled and stalked back towards the elf, eyes alight.

“You do not care unless you can gain!”

“We do not desert our friends and flee the battle like cowards.” His move was unexpected. He swung a powerful foot, all the more potent from his rage and swiped the grace from beneath King Thranduil. His sylph-like body tumbled to the ground in a flurry of silk. His surprise did not last long, and he lashed out his foot in an inelegant kick at the dwarf’s knee. Thorin was sent sprawling onto the floor beside Thranduil.  

The elf straightened and moved to stand, but Thorin had recovered himself quickly and grabbed the king before he managed to rise. The elf tumbled back to the floor but lashed out an elbow. It collided with Thorin’s face. “You are blinded by your greed!” he rose.

“You are blinded by yourself!” Thorin cried as he leapt upwards. Thranduil saw him coming and dodged his lunge, fluid as water. He used the prince’s momentum to throw him against the table. Bowls were sent crashing to the floor, fruit scattered across the room. Thorin shoved the king back as he attempted to hold him there. Thranduil grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him to him before he shoved backward with all his might and sent the dwarf sprawling across the tabletop.

Thorin struggled to right himself; his hands cleared the last of the wooden table of dressing. Thranduil met him at the table and each grabbed hold of each others’ tunics at the same time. Thorin glared at the startled King. They looked eye to eye, frozen in a strange suspension of action, mutually lost in an unspoken exchange.

Thranduil leant in and pressed his lips over Thorin’s. It was rough and sudden and nothing like Thorin had remembered the elf. A brief moment to realise what was happening before Thorin shoved the blonde from him. His eyebrows lowered over his eyes so they were almost in darkness except for the heat that had begun to flicker there. It overcame him from the depths and he pulled Thranduil back into him.

Their kisses were heavy and hurried. The forest sheltered them but it felt as though its protection would last only moments before the curious voices of guards would appear at Thranduil’s door. Their limited time enlivened their movements.

Thranduil’s kisses consumed him. A heat and need that Thorin had not felt in a kiss before eclipsed all thought. Thranduil climbed atop the table and pressed him down to the wood. His hand worked open Thorin’s loose blue shirt. His guards had done half his work already having divested the dwarf of his mail and armour. Thorin’s skin was set alight by the king’s roasting touches. His fingers left a trail of fire that burnt hotter than any flame that Smaug could ever spout. He felt himself tugged upwards. Thranduil’s hungry eyes devoured him as he ripped the blue shirt over Thorin’s head. The dwarf’s hair was thrown into disarray and fell around him in a flustered mess. It only seemed to enliven Thranduil further. His kisses burnt with a pent-up desire. Thorin arched as the elf rained kisses across his bare chest, fallen into a stupor at the sudden onset of passion.

Thranduil pushed his hardness against him, and the reality of the elf’s fervour seemed to reawaken his senses. He groaned and rose. Thranduil leant back and kissed his lips again instead, tongue sliding and pressing. Thorin shifted them, the need that built in him seemed to focus his mind. He shifted them around, Thranduil trusted his direction without question. He lay the elf before him on the table and knelt above. This time it would happen differently. This time it would happen his way. Thranduil’s hands traced up him and pressed lustily over the leather that encased his legs. Thorin slapped his hands away and nodded his head to the elf. His eyes were half-lidded and he was overcome with the strange affliction of desire. His face contorted, but he complied and turned.

Thorin pushed the silk of his tunic up and pulled the dark coloured leggings down to expose the perfect expanse of pale flesh to his naked gaze. He opened the buckle of his trousers, feeling his hardness strain against their confines. He exhaled heavily as he freed himself. A hand on Thranduil’s hip raised his pelvis from the table and he offered the Elf King to himself.

“Hurry up,” breathed Thranduil, still not quite relinquishing control. Thorin did not care. He pushed his way inside without pause. His entrance was smooth and the elven body seemed to accept him with willing ease. Elvish magic let him slide in and out unhindered. His hips rocked back and forth as he knelt behind the elf, pushing his length in and out of the warmth offered. His groan was met by an encouraging moan from beneath and he quickened his hips.

He ran his hands over Thranduil’s back feeling the contortions of the muscles beneath as the elf shivered in pleasure. He felt the smooth touch of Thranduil’s hand on the back of his thigh as it urged him onwards and deeper. He twisted a hand into Thranduil’s hair and tugged. A whine of gratification came to his ears as his eyes slid shut and his senses focused on the hot wetness around him.

His mouth dropped open as Thranduil’s hand urged him deeper still, and he buried himself completely within the king. He did not even notice the groan that escaped. His pace quickened and he felt himself growing close to completion. Noise had begun to rise outside and it made his senses all the sharper and need deepen.

Thranduil’s grunts were coming almost regularly now as he pushed himself backwards onto Thorin’s length. He matched his rhythm managing to keep in time as it grew uneven with some passionate melding of desires. They met each other thrust for thrust. The prince pushed deep into Thranduil with every stroke of his hips. His hand curled tighter in the elf’s hair and with a cry, the body beneath his was wracked with shakes. The warmth around him tightened and the pressure was enough to topple him over the edge.

Thranduil looked over his shoulder at him as he finished. Thorin’s lidded eyes saw the Thranduil’s face as they reached completion together, completing his memory of their last encounter with the sharp reality of the present.

A moment and then Thorin slid himself from the warmth around his length. He half-fell from the table and tugged his trousers back up around himself. The distant dwarf looked absently left and right for his shirt. A hand proffered it to him. He looked to Thranduil. The elf was unflustered and redressed. He sat upon the table as though he had just completed a discussion on politics. Thorin supposed that, in a way, they had.

The cries at the door had grown impossible to ignore.

“All is well!” replied Thranduil.

Thorin regarded him as he pulled his shirt the right way out. “Is it, Elf King?”

Thranduil nodded. “Your company shall pass. The affairs of dwarves and men are not the affairs of elves.” A scoff from Thorin made his lips purse. “As I have apparently proved.”

“We shall be on our way then,” Thorin said quietly. Inside a new burning grew; a rage at having fallen into such a tussle. It had been exactly what he had wished to avoid.

“And I hope you will consider my advice,” Thranduil said, his voice serious. “You will pass safely through these woods, Thorin son of Thrain.”

“You are right, I will,” Thorin smiled. “You were never going to stop me.”

 


End file.
